Salamander (28 page)

‘And myself?' asked Robichaud steadily.

The fire chief had realized there could be no escape for him. ‘You have no other choice but to tell them what they want to hear. Look, I'm sorry but that's the way of it. No matter how hard you both deny it, this will only reinforce what he wants to believe. But what he doesn't see is that he could accomplish everything he wants
and
earn himself an Iron Cross First-Class into the bargain. All he needs is to keep Madame Gauthier in custody. She's insurance enough you won't try to escape. Gestapo Mueller wants the Salamander stopped and to do so, my partner and I need you.'

It was Madame Gauthier who said distantly, ‘The Salamander knows the city so well. Without Julien's help, the Théâtre des Célestins will be child's play.'

‘Phosphorus?' asked Kohler sharply so that the boys in the next room could hear.

‘Perhaps,' said Robichaud gravely. ‘Only a little is needed and, of course, one can hide it in several places. That theatre … beautiful and ornate as it is, why … Ah, I've been telling them for years that something must be done to improve the fire exits and the extinguisher syst—'

The door opened and Barbie's two German shepherds came in to get acquainted. Shit! Excited by the prospects ahead, Frau Weidling darted her eyes from the woman to the bathtub, then to the larger of the dogs and back again to Madame Gauthier who could now no longer look at any of them.

The dogs … Kohler could hear her saying. The dogs …

Not a month after he'd arrived in Lyon, Barbie had earned himself a reputation for the baseness of his cruelty towards the women he interrogated, never mind the men. Though he knew he mustn't shout, Kohler raged at Frau Weidling and tried to stall them. ‘What'd you do to get those photographs, eh? Prostitute yourself to some zero-brained detective in Lübeck? Hey, my sweet little bit from Schwerin, is Lübeck where they came from? Throats slit, breasts cut open, vaginas …
Ja
,
ja
, Frau Fire Chief, the Lübeck cop-shop and you with your bare ass on some bastard's desk even though you didn't want him to dip his wick into you. He knew you were responsible for those fires. He
knew
you would try it again and again and … Ah
Gott im Himmel
, I'm an idiot! It was that husband of yours. He'd followed you from fire to fire. That's why you married him. The bastard found you out and forced you to—'

There was no denying she was beautiful when angry. She fingered his scrotum and said quietly, You should not have touched a thing in my room, Herr Kohler.'

‘It's Inspector to you.' Barbie was smirking. Shit!

‘I was nowhere near Lübeck or Heidelberg or Köln at the time of those other fires. I was in Paris.'

She had the whitest teeth. ‘You're lying. That husband of yours knows all about you. Hey, I think you and Claudine Bertrand were once lovers—a casual little affair that was remembered, eh? So, here we have a chance to come to Lyon and by God, love again. But Claudine promised to bring along a friend, someone really special, another woman. Did you want to hold a lighted cigarette between that one's toes, or were you more interested in the other parts? Flames when you masturbate. A grandfather who—'

Her features sharpened. Excruciating pain shot through him, stiffening every muscle as she squeezed his scrotum until he could not help but scream in anguish and gasp.

Then she hit him until there was blood in his eyes, and in a blind, numb way he understood this was her only means of convincing Barbie of her usefulness.

Boemelburg had a filthy cold. ‘The line is scratchy, Walter. No … ah no, there is no need to shout!' pleaded St-Cyr.

The Head of SIPO-SD Section IV, the Gestapo in France, had no patience for an old acquaintance from before the war. ‘Louis, what has Kohler been up to this time? Come, come, you know very well that
dummkopf
should have telephoned me himself. Another fire, eh? Yes, yes, Gestapo Mueller has just been on the line demanding …
demanding!
… to know what is going on.'

Hermann's Chief hawked up lumpy custard and let it erupt into a handkerchief perhaps. St-Cyr anxiously wiped the receiver on a sleeve just in case the lines carried more than words. ‘Walter, we are almost positive we know who the Salamander is but I absolutely must have Hermann's help. Klaus Barbie has him.'

A difficult gob was swallowed. ‘The Obersturmführer … but … but why is this?'

They were speaking deutsch, though Boemelburg was fluent in French. ‘A small misunderstanding,' confessed St-Cyr.

‘Has he been arrested?'

‘Yes, Herr Sturmbann—'

‘
Gott im Himmel
, Louis, why was he arrested?' Kohler … Kohler … oh
mein Gott
, not again!

It would be best to tell him just a little. More rubbish was swallowed. St-Cyr filled him in and then said, ‘Herr Robichaud knows nothing of the Resistance, Walter. The man was simply in the cinema to meet up with his girlfriend, a married woman who has a family, that is all. French—yes, yes, Walter, they're both French and the Pope will castigate them for their infidelity.' Ah
merde
! ‘I swear they had nothing to do with those people who were locked in the toilets. We need Robichaud for a little while. Just until the concert is over.'

‘Concert? What concert is this? Don't tell me you're all fucking the dog down there?'

‘Walter, Walter,
please
! It's a benefit. Something to gather money and clothing for the Russian Front.'

‘Then that is good. Yes, good. When is it to be held?'

Was he thinking of coming himself? ‘Tomorrow evening. It starts early and ends well before curfew. At least, I think it does. I imagine it does. I …' Have said too much?

‘Phosphorus, Louis? Oxalic and sulphuric acids? Our arsonist is a chemist, a metallurgist, an engineer, teacher or professor perhaps. Yes, someone with access to such things and the knowledge to use them.'

They talked for a little longer and then that was it. Short of setting fire to the place himself, there was little else he could do. Exhausted by the conversation, St-Cyr put down the telephone which rang immediately. Orders flew. An SS corporal raced for the stairs. Another leaned on the bell-push of the lift.

Impressed, the Feldwebel on the desk gave the Frenchman the once-over.

St-Cyr let him have it. ‘Get these clothes and a pot of coffee up to Inspector Kohler immediately. See that he receives the following message. He is to bring Frau Weidling and the others to the temporary morgue at the Lycée Ampere, and he is to wait there with them until I return.'

The hotel's frescos were mirrored in its lobby doors as he turned swiftly away. Oozing sentiment, they blissfully portrayed life in the Rhône Valley and in Renaissance times. Joyous faces among the peasants. No rain or snow or twenty degrees of frost and Gestapo torture rooms.

He would not take a
vélo-taxi.
He would catch a tram-car to the place Terreaux and use the ruins of the cinema to cover his tracks before continuing. Yes, yes, that would be best. There was no sense in leading Gestapo Lyon to the quarry. Martine Charlebois might simply have been duped, but she'd lost her keys and someone had found them.

When he got there, the Pare de la Tête d'Or appeared gripped in the fierceness of a polar waste, devoid of all sign of human life, dog, bird or cat. Down by the lake, the iron-and-glass cupola of the bandshell was hung with jagged icicles and at first he didn't see her.

She was standing alone, gazing out over the ice-covered lake toward the Île des Tamaris, the nearer of the two islands. Lost in thought, she was totally oblivious to the wind and the cold. Worried … ah so concerned with the turmoil of her thoughts, the brow beneath the knitted, dark brown toque would be well furrowed.

Now and then the gloved fingers of her right hand rubbed the railing as if, though still undecided, she had to agree it must have happened. When, finally, he cleared his throat and stepped up on to the platform, she awoke to him and gasped, then held a hand to her mouth to stop herself from saying anything. Trapped … Oh
mon Dieu
, she was terrified. Sick and looking away from him, panicking …

‘Mademoiselle Charlebois, it is one thing to have lost your keys and to have had them returned, it is another to still agonize over how you could possibly have lost them and why, of all places, here. Is that not so?'

Dear Jesus help her. There was no one else with him but why had he come?
Why
? That latest fire, that tenement … did he know the truth of it? ‘I … I was daydreaming, Inspector. Thinking about … about how I loved this old bandshell as a child. Pirates and castaways … oh, it was so many things for me. A ship, an island …'

She threw up suddenly, and he waited for her sickness to pass as she leaned over the railing in tears.

‘Mademoiselle, if you dropped your keys here, why was it that you had them in your hand? Surely you would have kept them in a safe place? Your purse, your briefcase, a drawer at home perhaps … ah, it is a puzzle unless …'

Unless
what
? she wanted to shriek at him. Unless she was lending them to someone? Was that what he thought? ‘I … I was trying to remember, Inspector, while … while thinking of my childhood. I … I can't understand why I had them out but I must have, mustn't I?'

Ten days ago at least! ‘Mademoiselle Charlebois, why, please, did you have the keys at all? Is it not customary for the concierge of the school to open and lock all doors?'

He had not yet mentioned the tenement fire but would he ask her where she was last night?
Would he
? ‘M … Monsieur Legrange, our custodian, has been quite ill. We all like him so much, we did not wish to seek a replacement so the staff agreed to take turns. I … I had not yet passed my keys on to Madame the Professor Calmette, my superior.'

‘But if the keys were lost and it was your duty to lock up, who did this for you?'

He was
trying
to unsettle her with all this talk of the keys … the
keys
! ‘Monsieur the Assistant Professor Paul. He … he has the other set. Usually we alternated. Every other day one of us would do it but he … he said he would cover for me until I … I found my keys.'

He would make her think he was suddenly fed up with her evasiveness. He would grip the railing and stare across the lake. ‘Were you alone when you lost them?' he asked. ‘Come, come, mademoiselle. Was it your three
zazous
you met here ten days ago or your Monsieur Paul?'

‘My Monsieur Pa … ul? He … he is too old for me, Inspector. He is … he is fifty-six. I am only twenty-six!'

He'd be gruff about it. ‘Fifty-six is not so old, not these days when most of our young men are away in POW camps or in the grave.'

When she didn't respond, he said, ‘You were meeting Jean-Pierre. He's the oldest of your little tribe. Seventeen, is he, or eighteen?'

‘I … I don't know what you're implying. Me? Having an affair with Jean-Pierre? One of my students? It … it is just not possible for me to love another, Inspector. I once did but … but soon learned my lesson. Oh yes I did! Jean-Pierre had managed to get me a capon. I … I must have taken the keys out of my pocket when I found the money for him.'

She had once had a lover—a fiancé? he wondered. ‘So you set them on the railing here and then … what then, mademoiselle? Did you turn to look back toward your house in fear your brother might have seen you together with that boy? Did your elbow then knock the forgotten keys to the ground where they lay hidden for so long? You were distracted for days prior to their loss—that's what your three
zazous
told me. Yes, yes, mademoiselle, you needn't look so betrayed. What had been troubling you? The thought that your clandestine meetings here had been discovered and misinterpreted by your brother or had he really misinterpreted them?'

Dear Jesus help her to stop quivering. The detective was
not
going to leave her alone. ‘Henri, he … he understands that Jean-Pierre is … is just a friend, Inspector. A helper—doesn't one need such helpers these days if one is to survive?'

She was crying again but had not realized it. ‘Then was it worry over your brother's relationship with Claudine Bertrand, mademoiselle? Please, the time for truth is upon us.'

Her eyes and nose were wiped, her head was bowed. ‘I … I have told you I … I hardly knew her.'

‘Yes, but when she couldn't get money from your brother, she came straight to you. Therefore, mademoiselle, she knew you well enough!'

Ah no. ‘She … she was a terrible woman, Inspector. Morally bankrupt. I have told Henri many times to have nothing more to do with her, but … but he … he never listens to his little sister.'

‘All right then, did he go with her? Did he visit her at La Belle Époque?'

She would have to face him and pray there were no more tears. ‘My … my brother is not like that, monsieur. Henri … Henri knew everything there was to know about Claudine. What she thought, how she would react to … to things. Her moods, her hopes, her little … Well, you know. And so did Ange-Marie.'

He could not let her off the hook. ‘Where is the husband of Madame Rachline?'

‘The father of her children?' She would shrug—yes, yes! ‘No one knows. They didn't get on. One day he was there, the next he … he has left her for another, perhaps, and she has found her bed cold and herself as mistress of that place. Henri …'

‘Has kept the house furnished in the décor of the times.'

Must he be so cruel? ‘Is there harm in that, Inspector? Our grandfather …'

‘Owned the house. Am I correct?'

She bit her lower lip and felt her cheeks colouring rapidly. ‘Yes, damn you! Henri sold shares to several Lyonnais. The préfet, the magistrate—oh
bien sûr
my brother is a businessman, Inspector.
Very
successful,
very
determined to carry on the name of the shop and “other” things. He thought it best to see that Ange-Marie had as little trouble as possible. It was to be
business
as usual, right from the day our grandfather died and Henri caught the madam of that place cheating!'